#at the same time he tries to do Better than Splinter. he doesn't hit them outside of training - although that has its own reasoning

[dadatello]

Is there anything Dadatello is purposefully doing differently in raising Minitello and Leo to the way that Splinter raised him the first time? Also, is there anything specific he has purposefully carried on doing with his boys that Splinter did with him? Any traditions or anything like that?

"You know, I don't often show emotion, but it's scientifically proven to be beneficial for a child's development. Which is to say... this is important for the kids.

Losing Leonardo at the end there... had me thinking. I shouldn't act like I take my family for granted. He was a champion. And a damn good leader, too.

Just don't tell 'Nardo Junior all of that. It'll go to his head."

[nardos-primetime]

An Unedited Ramble for my Villain Mikey AU

TW// Death, Toxicity, SH technically, probably some typos and odd paragraph spacing but that's not a TW is it (this was written by a sleepy man who listened to a song and Got insane inspiration and had to get it out)

Probably prior movie after series ends timeline wise, around where things start breaking down. With all the arguments, Mikey's optimism has started to break down. He's noticing every negative, Donnie's even started getting involved in Leo and Raph's arguments, removing his only safe space. It doesn't help that Donnie and Leo both keep acting like they're in any position to give advice on being "better" than the other ones. Hypocritical, acting like you're above the arguments you start just because Raph is older.

Splinter seems to insist they'll level each other out eventually.

Once again everyone's treating him like a naive child. Y'know, in the past he never asked Splinter for help and this is why. 'Incompetent,' the thought breaks into Mikey's head whenever he sees another argument get ignored by his father. He feels like shit right after. How could he ever think that? How could he ever think something so negative?

He turns to his art, gripping pencils and brushes, pressing the tip of spray paint cans down. But his ideas. They're all so…

Wounded. That's all, they're wounded, he can heal them, they just need time, all this darkness will eventually leave him. He turns to training, something he's been avoiding since his brothers have seemed to split up. He starts normally, than for extra flare he adds his extraordinary skill of bending further than he should, twisting and contorting himself as he sends out his nunchucks towards the training dummies that have grown dusty, since who needs a punching bag when you're fighting your brothers?

If they can't man up, he will. He trains himself. Dummies fall, catch on fire. Not a single time do the others notice his time in there, every day there's another slammed train door, another shout. It becomes art to figure out how he can defeat the faux enemies in front of him.

In actual missions he carries the weight. God knows they won't. They're too busy focusing on each other fault of the time he deals with it because they get a hit in. And Donnie and Leo act like it's a positive.

Raph. Judges. Him.

"Your strategies have gotten more… dangerous, but more effective, Michelangelo! When'd you learn that?"

"He's on fire, naturally."

"Are you okay?"

He freaks out at night. The crackling in his hands when he tried to paint has returned, they tremble until he has those nunchucks back in his hands. He's becoming something scary.

He trains it out.

Pushing his body farther and farther. His thoughts of his brothers and father being so selfish turn against him, visions of swinging the flaming chain around their necks and throwing them down turn into him. The chain around his neck. His eyes blur with tears but he still swings and bends and swings and every fucking battle Leo and Donnie argue like it's their achievement and not his. And not a result of them doing the same shit Splinter did, if not worse.

And Raph looks scared.

So he picks his razzmatazz back up, just to feel a little better amongst his violence. A dance step here, a twirl, a flip. It makes it so much more comfortable.

Rpah watches from the corner of the doorway. He doesn't bother getting Mikey's attention. Mikey wouldn't give it to him.

He doesn't deserve it.

Mikey's hands start glowing, they start burning.

He wants to leave.

One day, in the bathroom mirror he sees himself. He thinks he's lost it. He looks so old but happy. His reflection tries to start a conversation, he speaks like he knows Mikey. Like Mikey's supposed to stay here, like anything good has come out of the Hamato family but mask after mask.

He knows what he's going to do without any preparation. He deals with his problem, tears welling in his eyes as he screams, he's finally ranting as he tries to go somewhere else, anywhere else instinctively putting his arms out.

They tried to stop him and something came out. An explosion. The flesh of his arms peel upwards as he stares.

And he laughs. Because it's funny, it's funny how his brain had lost any positive words to say but once they're gone all he can think of is the good. The fake "good" things.

He steps through the portal. His arms covered in blood, his body held together by spite. He should be dead. Some part of him thinks back to his reflection. Maybe he wasn't crazy.

Maybe there's some Michelangelo's out there still lying to themselves. More good for nothing brothers who continuously drop the ball and hit their little brothers square in the chest.

Each fix burns his hands, flesh falls off his arms in chunks. His fingers are completely covered in bloody bandage until it's time for him to do his thing. He can never man up enough to get the Splinters.

He moves swiftly, confidently yet casually. Twisting himself to the edge of what he can handle as he throws himself around, grinning and smiling, almost flaunting like some things he used to know. Showing his strength in an attempt to protect, overstepping the boundaries of universes themselves to protect someone he doesn't even know, like some thing he used to know.

Michelangelo is all grown up. It's too bad his brothers couldn't do the same. It's too bad he had to do it for them. It's too bad he still has to. It's too bad he has them wandering around whenever he's alone. It's too bad that they act like he's done nothing wrong.

"It's too bad none of this matters."

"Right, Mikey?"

"You'll find us next time, Big guy!"

"There's a good bunch out there, you'll find them."

He always was one for imaginary friends.

[egg-on-the-run]

Massage

The turtle's s/o is exhausted, they help make things better with a massage.

(she/her pronouns used)

Leonardo

She's already asleep in his bed when he comes home from patrol. Usually she waits for him on the couch, even when she was tired, but Splinter had specifically told him she was already asleep, warned him to do his best not to wake her up.

She must be exhausted.

He tiptoes in as quietly as he could after his shower, spots her lying flat on his bed: not tucked in, just lying atop his blankets on her stomach. She had been too tired to lift the sheets.

He can see how tense she is, can see the way how even in her sleep her shoulders still rise to her ears, how her finger twitches with an anxious need to keep moving. Her face scrunched up slightly, adorable, but he would rather it be relaxed and soft.

He's careful and slow moving her onto the bed properly, still not setting her under the covers just yet. He's even more careful when he straddles her legs, keeps his weight off them almost entirely. His hands start at her lower back, kneading into her very softly.

She jolts and eyes snap open, "What are you doing?"

"I uh, I was giving you a massage, you look tense, even in your sleep."

"Oh," She relaxes, "You're an angel, just scared me a little." Her head hits the pillow again, already drifting off.

He tries once more, hands softly pressing into her lower back. She lets out a breath of air, sinking further into the mattress. He continues, travelling further up her spine. Usually he hates the sound of bones cracking (all of his brothers teased him constantly about it), but tonight he was quite happy to hear little pops coming from her spine. He especially didn't mind when she gave a little moan afterwards.

His hands travel further up towards her shoulders, kneading and rolling his wrists into the dozens of knots in her back. Her shoulders were so tense that she whined whenever he was too rough. He had to be gentle, working them out slowly.

By the time he was finished, she was sleepily trying to reach his hand with her eyes closed.

"Cuddle me," She mumbled as she found his hand, "Pretty please? I've got tomorrow off."

"Of course," He replied, moving to help her under the sheets, "That was the plan anyway."

He pulled her tight against his chest, hearing her bones crack once more as she melted like putty in his hands. He kissed her forehead.

"Thank god you've got tomorrow off, I'll let you sleep in as long as you want." He sighed, relaxing himself, "I'll make sure the lair is quiet."

She didn't hear a word of what he said, she was already fast asleep.

Raphael

Raphael was the king of tension. He wasn't like Michelangelo where little bothered him, or like Donatello who had those random self care days, or even like Leonardo who learned to de-stress through meditation. Oh no, Raphael carried tension like a mother with a clingy child: pulling on his shoulders, weighing him down and making him irritated.

It came with the whole anger thing.

So there have been countless times where she has used her knuckles to work the knots out of his shoulders. It was no easy task, especially when she had to use most of her body weight to actually get through each and every knot.

But she'd do it a hundred times more if he needed her to, and Raphael knew that, knew it all to well.

So when he sees her already grumbling to herself at the latest email that just came through to her laptop, when he see her shoulders rising to her ears in frustration and hands balling into fists, he knew he had to do the same thing for her as she had done countless times for him.

She jumps when he first puts his hands on her shoulders, but recognises the warm touch shortly after.

"What are you doing?" She asked, one hand reaching up to rest on top of his, she kept her attention glued to her screen, "I have a lot of work to do, Raphie."

"I know," He said, beginning to knead into her shoulders, "Just a massage, you look stressed."

"Oh with that lovely email, I am more than stressed."

She's always had a sharp tongue, never directed it to him (never intentionally) but he knows her patience is wearing thin and work certainly wasn't helping. He thought about taking his hands away entirely, not wanting to pester her; but she ran her thumb across his hand, typed with only one set of fingers, and Raphael remembered how often she did this for him when his patience was thinner than a piece of paper.

He pressed his hands into her shoulders again, watched as her head leaned back and body moved with his hands. He knew the feeling, when the knots were so tight they just hurt. He continued to work his hands into her shoulders, and slowly it seemed to stop hurting and the tension started to melt away. She closed her eyes, pushed her laptop away from her and just let herself be for a moment.

"Those big ol' hands of yours," She said, voice more like a breath, "So gentle with me."

"Not like you, using your damn elbows to get the knots out."

"But does it work?" She laughed.

He chuckled, "Of course it works, you're the best at this."

"Oh I dunno, you might give me a run for my money, this feels like heaven right now." Her head rolled to the side, turning slightly to kiss his hand, "Take me to bed Raphie, please."

With one final squeeze he let go, moving his arms to wrap around her waist and carry her to bed. Work wasn't important, this was.

Donatello

The lair was far too noisy, Donatello's lab was far too bright. Everything was just too much, all at once. Even as she sat on his desk, the reflection of his computer in his glasses from behind her was glaring into her eyes. He sat between her legs, arms around her waist and rambling about — god, she didn't even know at this point. She'd spaced out long ago, too overwhelmed to even try and catch up.

He moved his head at he spoke, Donatello was always an expressive fellow, and the light bounced off his glasses right into her eyes. She squinted, scrunched her entire face up and groaned.

"You have a migraine," He said plainly, "I have some painkillers in my drawer—"

"I took some earlier, they just haven't kicked in yet." She frowned.

She looked in pain, Donatello hated to see her like this, hated when there wasn't anything he could do.

He reached up and cupped her face, "Have you had enough water today?"

"Yeah," She mumbled, "Been using that new water bottle I got."

"When did you last eat?"

"Went out for dinner with some coworkers."

Donnie hummed, not knowing what else could cause her such a migraine. They usually had a reason behind them, she didn't usually just get them randomly. He wondered if she'd be on her phone too much, not to sound like Splinter, but she's been talking to him for the past hour or so, her eyes should have rested by now.

She pushed her cheek into his hand, letting his hand squish the chub on her face. Donatello squeezed gently, rubbing her cheeks in a circular motion.

"What are you doing?" She asked, voice muffled by his hands.

"Massaging your face," He replied, moving to knead her cheekbones with his thumbs, "Maybe it's tension that's brought this on."

"Maybe..."

He moved his thumbs over the bridge of her nose and followed the shape of her eyebrows, he repeated the action a few times before gently rubbing her temples.

"You're really good at this..." She murmured, eyes closed and jaw slack. Her face was no long scrunched up, but instead so completely relaxed she looked as though she was already asleep. Donatello persisted, using his thumbs to move the tension away from her face. His hands moved to her hair, grasping tightly and then releasing, he tickled his fingers through her locks: slowly so as not to pull on any tangles.

By the time he'd moved back to her jaw, he was pretty sure she'd fallen asleep where she sat. He smiled softly at her, kissed her forehead, and carried her off to bed.

He needed an early night as well.

Michelangelo

She had been on her feet all day, running errands for a coworker who had recently hurt their leg. Said coworker was fine, and would be perfectly capable of putting of such errands until their leg was better (really, Mikey huffed, using his girlfriend like a servant). But she could never just say no, and even after she'd ran around the city collecting bits and bops, dropping off items and buying groceries, her coworker hadn't even offered her so much as a sit down before he not-so-subtly led her out of his apartment.

So she came stumbling to the lair, exhausted and drained beyond compare and ready to collapse but still so eager to see her darling Mikey. He was in the shower when she arrived, she knew because Raphael told her, and because she could hear his singing before she'd even arrived.

She dragged herself to his bed, kicking her shoes off and not even caring where she left them. She collapsed to her knees before she could crawl under the blankets, lying surprisingly comfortably on the floor.

"Hey, hey angel! What are you doing down here?" Mikey's cheerful voice woke her up, along with a little shake of her shoulder. "We snoozing on the floor now?"

"So tired..." She mumbled, eyes fluttering closed, "Carry me to bed."

"No problem, the whole five feet distance it is." Mikey chuckled. He picked her up, sliding her onto his bed, careful not to bump her head on Raphael's top bunk. "All those errands huh? Guy owes you a thanks at least."

"Jackass kicked me out before I could even sit down at his place," She glared at the mattress above her, "So rude."

"Uh, totes rude? My girl did all that for him and he doesn't even let you sit down? Jackass is a very nice way to describe him." Mikey smiled at her, "Your poor little feet must be sore after all that running around."

"I think my ankles are swollen."

"Just a little." He teased, moving to sit between her legs. He took one of her legs and squeezed firmly along her calves. His hands slid down to her ankles and he frowned: they were slightly swollen, he had only been joking but turns out he was right. He rolled her ankle for her, moved her foot so that it pointed and then helped stretch her heel. He squeezed her calf one more time before moving on to her other leg.

"You're so sweet," She babbled, "Thank you for taking care of me."

"No problem babe, somebody has to," He laughed, "And it's not hard work."

She smiled at him, eyes struggling to stay open. He smiled back at her, not that she could see him, and softly told her to go to sleep; he'd take care of her.

[your-ace-cousin-clover]

okay soooo... sorry for the delayed reply, i've been kinda busy!

i gotta start this off by saying how much i loved the way you wrote "[...] that feeling of wanting to reach divinity and holiness with your writing. The raw, exposed nerve of that writing." - it's hard for me to refer to writing as a hobby because it's such a substantial part of me, if that makes sense? or maybe that's just my codependent relationship to writing... whenever i don't write for a while i start feeling like a non-person! (ok, in hindsight this doesn't sound 100% related to the holiness bit, but that's what sparked the train of thought)

on for colored girls who have considered suicide - when the rainbow is enuf: i actually listened to a monologue from this a while ago on youtube, but I'll be sure to check out the full text!

also, on the topic of spoken-word & slam poetry: i'm going to a poetry reading at a friend's place later this month and it's nerve-racking. i mean, hey, of course i bleed into my poetry, and in theory i'm cool with that. but reading it aloud to a room half full of strangers? that's like lying on an operating table, flesh sliced open with surgeons over you. (i'm sure it'll be fun, though)

i've read primer for small weird loves and wishbone (because they're both included in richard siken's book crush - which is definitely worth the money (& btw, he has a new book coming out this year in fall/winter; thought i'd tell you in case you didn't know))! out of the two i like wishbone a lot more - although that's probably just because i relate to it a little bit more. i like making lists so i've compiled some of my favorite parts from the poem:

• "I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons [...]"

• "Let's not talk about it, let's just not talk."

• "[...] we keep doing it Henry, we keep saying until we get it right... [...]"

• "If you love me, Henry, you don't love me in a way I understand."

• "This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish."

it's crazy (well, not really, but you know) that you mentioned jericho brown, because we read something by him in english class a few years back and he's completely slipped my mind since then! so, thanks for reminding me :)

first of all, i love how duplex starts and ends with the same line - and this may be a reach, but it feels sort of like coming home? he introduces us to the line, we go away for a while, then we're back at the beginning. and maybe i just feel this way because for me going home is synonymous with going back home. (not always, but a lot of the time.) also, the contrast of "none of the beaten end up how we began" & the poem ending exactly how it began? i don't have the right words to explain what, but there's something that grabs me in that.

now, let's take a short detour because i feel like dropping some recs. here's two poets whose work i really enjoy: chen chen and jasmine ledesma (who i think is on tumblr, too? @/candiedspit if i'm not wrong). i'd specifically like to recommend (and hopefully hear you opinion on) chen chen's i'm not a religious person but & jasmine ledesma's short stories no candy, sorry and FIEND.

links (just in case the previous ones don't work):

i'm not a religious person but: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58152/im-not-a-religious-person-but

no candy, sorry: https://tinyletter.com/jasmineledesma/letters/no-candy-sorry

FIEND: https://marchharemag.com/fiend

lastly, thanks for the prompt! i'll be sending you the poem in a separate ask (although i'm convinced it only makes sense if you're me) as to not make this one too long haha

-cat

Cat!

Sorry on the delayed reply on my side too. I've been sorta busy with a lot of stuff, but I had to drop in a message.

First of all, the poem? Iconic. It is so well written!!! Ahh! The way you use the numbers to count down all the things in a list sort of a format . And the splendid use of a clock ticking to signify the time coming closer and closer. It reminds of the Doomsday Clock which always reminds us that we are two minutes to complete destruction and in a way it is an inevitable destruction. "I'm one drink away from holiness and I'm not stopping" is such a vivid Ginsberg line that ahhh, it hits with the concept of the Beat Generation being these drunk, high poets who ultimately want to experience divinity through their intoxication and writing. And the ending with, "it's almost Valentine's- please tell your wretched heart I'm sorry." AGHH, the way the narrator tries to stop the inevitability of the sadness of romance?? Or being stuck in a relationship and trying to do better? The interpretations are left wide open and I love that.

[Let me know if you'd be okay with me sharing your poem? And oh, if you like to send me another prompt, I would love that.]

And I wanted to give you some advice on slam poetry performances, I have a bit of an experience with them. The surgical metaphor is indeed apt, there is some vulnerable to stand in front of a group of people to carve out yourself into words and see it take on a meaning for everyone differently. But, revel in that vulnerable state and see how that conveys meaning. Focus on a spot in the room and speak to it and let meaning take its own hold. And remember, even if you don't get the reception you are hoping for, hold onto the meaning that you initially wrote it with. How your poetry affects you in the end is what matters. And good luck! Let me know how it goes.

[I didn't know about the new Siken book. Do you know if it has a name? I'll have to look it up whenever it releases.]

Ahh, and I love the idea of listening favourite lines of poems, I might start doing that with my favourite poems too.

[Also, I know it's in the name, but there's something about the way Wishbone is written that it makes you keep as if you are splintering into bits and dissolving. Especially in the bit where he goes I wish you'd stop reminding about the debt because you can do nothing about it and even if you love me, it is not the way I want.; Please let me go, I cannot let you be in my debt anymore.]

Jericho Brown? Iconic. The cyclical nature of the form as well as it is sort of the same line all the while not being the same line is such a beautiful way to express the repetition, but all how each cycle in a way is different than the last one.

I loved Chen Chen's poem. The way God chooses to escape from his own reality through someone who does not believe enough in him to question him at first it beautiful. And what hits me is how God stops and creates a barrier again by sending the angel as soon as he is questioned in adjacent to his role in the universe. What interests me is how the atheist (I know it does not mention atheism directly, but close enough) is sent an angel and later meet with God, and therefore, the relation that they form is a meaningful bond between two individuals rather than being a power dynamic with the worshipped and the devotee.

There's something about Ledesma's stories about hopelessness in her both protagonists. In the same way, both are extremely tired of their circumstances and want to be somewhere else in perhaps a better versions of their selves. The scattered prose certainly draws it very strongly together.

And finally, to drop a rec of my own, let me know what you think of Ada Limon's "The Problem With Travel" and "Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds." They both are very beautiful poems.

Hope to hear from you soon! :)

[thesasscat]

The Mandela Effect

I don't know who might see this but I'm going to say this right now I AM NOT CRAZY! I just need someone, ANYONE to believe me! It all started a few days ago . .

My life is FAR from perfect, my wife and I are poor getting by on thrifting, and food pantries; I work a job I despise, but my family is what makes it beautiful. The day ended as usual, tucking my eldest in bed for the night, getting my infant to sleep and finally my wife and I going to bed.

This is where things, went so wrong. I've lived my whole life not knowing my greatest fear until I learned about a moment in history called "The man from a country that doesn't exist" and then i realised that was in fact my greatest fear. I'm now living that scenario!

* * *

I woke up in an apartment I have never seen before. Already freaked out I went to get out of bed but found I wasn't alone, I was hoping it was my wife and some how this would make sense, but no it was my ex; I screamed. He woke with a start.

"Cat! What the hell?!."

"What date is it!"

"What has gotten-"

"WHAT FUCKING DATE IS IT!"

"It's December nineth, twenty-twenty. Why are you being such a bitch this morning?!"

Slightly less panicked but also more annoyed with him, I jumped out of the bed and found my phone. I left the room to look for my eldest, I doubted I would find my infant in whatever nightmare I was in! "Felicity! Time to get up! Felicity?!" WHERE IS SHE!

I started feeling tears spring to my eyes as panic welled up again. I searched for my wife in my contacts. It's not here! I tried finding on my Facebook list. No! But I noticed a mutual friend that introduced us however was online. Please have answers! This can't be happening! Please don't let this be real!

Hey question ur still friends w/ Rosalina on Discord or Facebook or wutever yes?

I waited what seemed like an hour, whiping my tears, even though it was likely just three minutes for their response.

U know Rosy?

Uh ya! U introduced us we've been together...well a while now!

......uhhh r u ok? Cuz I never introduced u 2......Cat....she killed herself 2 years ago....I'm sorry but if this is some kind of sick joke it's not funny!

The floor and ceiling suddenly inverted, and everything went black

* * *

I woke up in the same strange apartment but on a couch this time, my head ached as I tried remember everything before. My heart dropped as I remembered what Juno told me, tears spraing up again in gusto, as grief washed over me remembering my wife was dead, likely on the same date as her last attempt but this time she suceeded.

She never knew how much I loved her, of the beautiful baby girl we had together, she never knew the life we built together. I would never have the chance to ever look into those beautiful green eyes of hers or even run my fingers through her hair.

"CAT!"

I snapped to attention he must have been trying to get my attention for a while.

"What."

"Ok what the fuck is up with you today? And who is Felicity?!"

"Our kid! You know sassy blonde blue eyes carbon copy of my but smaller ring any bells?" I completely forgot how much he really brought out the worst in me.

"Did you hit your head or something because you're acting completely crazy!"

"I'M NOT CRAZY!" I shouted bolting upright, "I'M STUCK IN THE MANDELA EFFECT AND NONE OF THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPENING! I LEFT YOU. THREE YEARS AGO! WE HAD A KID! I MOVED ON AND YOU DIDN'T I FOUND SOMEONE NEW AND YOU ALWAYS HATED THAT! HATED THAT I MOVED ON TO SOMEONE BETTER AND STOPPED TAGGING AROUND WITH YOU! THAT I BEGAN PUTTING UP BARRIERS AND REFUSED TO LET YOU TEAR THEM DOWN!" My face felt hot, I was shaking as all of this sank in. He looked taken aback but it didn't matter.

Felicity doesn't even exist here either, my whole life I had before is completely gone for good. My sweet girls.... Annabelle..... Felicity.....

"Uh huh.......you haven't started any new medication right?"

"FUCK YOU!" I shouted, throwing the nearest object at him. I left out the front door livid, not even bothering to grab a change of clothes or shoes, and did something I never thought I would do. I opened my phone and called my mom.

"Hey sweetie!"

"Mom... can you come get me?"

A pause.

"<Dead nam>-" I grimaced as I did my best to pretend she didn't dead name me, "Im, in Utah remember? I would love to see you but that's a bit of a drive, i would have to make just for a visit. Is everything ok?" I pondered whether to tell her or not, but I figured the worst she could do is point out the fact psychosis runs in the family, or just make it about her.

"You'll believe me right?"

Her tone of voice changed to her lawyer voice, "<Dead name> are you safe or do you need someone to get you?"

"No it's just you remember me talling you and the story of a man from a country that didn't exist......and how that freaked me out more than anything in the world?" I tried keeping my voice steady, as tears welled up again.

"Yes but what does that have to do with our conversation?"

I drew a breath, and my words came flooding out "I'm living in it, I'm in some kind of worLD WHERE SOMEHOW I'M BACK WITH CLYDE AND ROSY AND I WERE NEVER TOGETHER WE NEVER HAD OUR LITTLE FAMILY AND WE NEVER MET AND WE NEVER WILL MEET AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE HER GRAVE IS SO I CAN NEVER GO SEE HER AND I'M SCARED AND I WANT THIS TO BE JUST A REALLY BAD DREAM BUT IT'S NOT AND I WANT OUT OF HERE!" I finished through sobs.

Another pause "Ok I am going to call Emily to come get you and let her know you need some air, but I think maybe a trip to the psych hospital is also possibly needed-"

"MOM! I'M NOT CRAZY I DON'T BELONG IN THIS LIFE! YOU HAVE TWO OTHER GRANDCHILDREN THEIR NAMES ARE FELICITY AND ANNABELLE. FELICITY IS FOUR, SHE LOOKS JUST LIKE ME SHE'S SASSY, LOVES POKEMON, MY LITTLE PONY AND DINOSAURS! ANNABELLE IS ALMOST A YEAR OLD SHE WAS THE NICU BABY SHE HAS RED HAIR, SHE'S THE FANCY GIRL! SHE LOVES SOFT THINGS, CUDDLES AND SOFIA THE FIRST! ROSALINA WAS MY WIFE SHE WAS A FEW INCHES TALLER THAN ME AND WE HAD SUCH A WONDERFUL LIFE TOGETHER!" I'm shaking worse than ever.

"<Dead name>"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT I CAME OUT AS NONBONARY AND CHANGED MY NAME 6 YEARS AGO!"

"I'm going to call your sister now." She said before hainging up. I threw my phone on the ground with all of my strength. I wanted to scream to hit my head as hard as possible and hope to wake up finding out this wasn't real. THIS CAN'T BE REAL!

My younger sister texted my phone the notification popping up on my now shattered screen.

Mom is on the phone with me right now

R u sure ur ok?

I typed furiously, wincing as my fingers caught on glass splinters.

I'M NOT CRAZY!!!!!

* * *

I'm refusing to go any redirect my sister asked for us to go to outside of her place, I know they're having me committed. I'm trying to act casual as I try typing this all on my phone and pretending my shattered screen isn't a big deal. I need just one person please say you believe me! I'm NOT crazy like everyone thinks I am. I'm not acting out some complex delusion, these people I am now grieving are real and I love them more than life itself.

Please, anyone at all tell me you believe me, please show me I'm not the crazy person every one is saying I've become.